


Shot in the Dark

by Wandrian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-14 15:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20603177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wandrian/pseuds/Wandrian
Summary: A short narrative regarding Sherlock Holmes's encounter with a drunken spitfire who mistakes 221 Baker Street as her own flat.





	1. Chapter 1

When Belle Tinker drunkenly teetered up to 221 Baker Street in the dead of night, bleeding and disoriented from a stumble over a rubbish bin, she was more than unpleasantly surprised when the key to her new flat did not unlock the front door.

"This looks like the place, doesn't it?" she asked sluggishly, turning towards the street in question, and then proceeded to shrug when receiving no response. She tried the lock again. "Well, shit."

Her eyes widened and tapered as they attempted to focus on the keyhole. The yellow haze of the streetlamp behind magnified her warped vision, and when Belle lurched forwards and grasped the doorknob with small, trembling hands, the key previously in her grasp was launched to the dark London street behind.

"_Aha_!" she crowed, startling herself by the sudden volume of her voice and stumbling briefly because of it. She glowered at the knob, legs wobbling. "You cannot trick me you dastardly door. Beg for mercy and I shall let you live! No? Fine! _En Garde_, swine!"

Seven forceful kicks to the door later, each pound resounding into the darkness and reverberating rather painfully throughout her tibia, Belle found herself once again surprised that night, but more pleasantly so. The black door creaked open, a mere two inches, and bright eyes filled the space beyond.

Belle withdrew her boot, blinking owlishly.

"Hey," she chirped. "Who the hell are you?"

The door swung open an additional couple inches, revealing an older woman in a lavender nightgown (complete with lacy frills) with an expression of apprehension fixed across her open, elegant face. Her eyes glimmered, her mouth curving into a perfect sphere of surprise.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she breathed.

Belle stiffened, "Really? _Gosh_. Where?" then, peering once more at the older woman, this time stepping forward and encroaching her personal space with narrowed, probing eyes: "Hugo? Why do you look like an old woman? You cosplaying the Queenie again? Purple is really not your color, mate."

The woman bristled and swung the door open. She shook her head, voice gentle albeit hesitant. "I'm not Hugo, dearie–"

"Drat."

"–and I do believe you are quite lost."

"Lost? _Quite_ lost?" Belle looked around wildly, mouth agape, and nearly lost her balance again. She looked back at the older woman, fear flashing across her eyes. "Quite lost where? Where am I? I can't be quite lost. This is my flat. Hugo? Why do you look like an old woman? Purple is really not your–"

"I am not Hugo, dear," the woman repeated. "You can call me Mrs. Hudson and, yes, you are most certainly lost and very much drunk."

Belle's face fell. "I am?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Yes."

"Are you sure?"

Another nod.

"Drat," Belle sighed. "I knew it, Hugo."

"Mrs. Hudson," she corrected.

Belle tensed. "Really? _Gosh_. Where?"

"Right here!"

"Oh!" Belle grinned, then frowned. "Who are you?"

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Hugo?"

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"I knew it!"

"Knew what?"

Belle shrugged, chuckling jovially. "I don't know! Wait," she blinked, eyebrows knitting over large, glazed eyes. "What are you doing in my flat? _Are you drunk_?"

"No, nor am I Hugo."

"Mrs. Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson released a heavy sigh through flared nostrils, a gesture that had Belle envisioning a miniature horse bedecked in a lavender nightgown (complete with lacy frills) and stamping a hoof indignantly before her, and thusly began chortling with so much uninhibited mirth that she nearly lost control of her physical faculties and flopped onto the ground. When she grasped the door for balance, the older woman abruptly gasped with dismay.

"You poor thing!" she exclaimed, startling Belle when she grabbed her by the wrists, carefully turning her palms skyward. The older woman clucked her tongue. "Silly girl, you've torn your hands to shreds."

"Huh." Belle peered down at the dark splotches of blood across her palms. "Would ya look at that, Hugo."

"Mrs. Hudson," the woman corrected under her breath, examining the various lesions, pulling Belle closer towards the soft light of the flat. She shook her head, arching a maternal brow. "You're too inebriated at the moment to feel this, but you certainly will once you sleep it off. How did this happen?"

"Um," Belle pondered, mashing her lips together in thought. She swayed for a moment, steadied by Mrs. Hudson's firm hold. Then, suddenly, her eyes bugged with epiphany. "Rubbish bin!"

"Rubbish bin?"

"Affirmative! I took it out."

"Took it out?" Mrs. Hudson frowned.

Belle experimentally tugged against the woman's hold, but shrugged when Mrs. Hudson's grip tightened. Safely anchored to the ground by heavy boots and held upright by a gentle touch, she swayed back and forth, one corner of her mouth lifting into an easy, cockeyed grin. Her eyes crinkled.

"Not on a date," she said, chuckling at the absurdity. "I ran into it. In an alleyway. Ya know, _took it out_. But I apologized."

Mrs. Hudson suppressed a smile. "Apologized?"

"Absolutely," Belle nodded piously. "And profusely, I will have you know—manners, dear Hugo, are_ free_. Then we both went on our merry way."

"Oh, really?"

"Verily. I shit ye not."

Mrs. Hudson released another lengthy sigh, then commenced to startle Belle when she began pulling her across the threshold and into the cozy warmth of the building. She stumbled along, her vision immediately spinning like a helter-skelter as her legs were propelled forward.

"The hell is with this _turbulence_," she groused, windmilling her free arm in an unsuccessful attempt to slap away Mrs. Hudson's hand, but managed to thwack herself in the face. "Ouch. Not so fast. Not. So. Faaast!"

The older woman glanced behind, tutting disapprovingly as she led Belle further into the heart of the flat. Near seesawing collisions into Mrs. Hudson aside, Belle blinked at her surroundings. It smelled old but clean, and soon the familiar and comforting scent of used books congested her already addled senses, the crooked smile reappearing and widening until a set of dimples peppered each flushed cheek. There were other scents, other sights, and other sounds (for a moment she faltered—was that a _violin_?), which only became more mottled to Belle the further she ventured inside.

There was a gentle tug at her wrist.

"Come, come," Mrs. Hudson chided. "I'm not about to leave a young thing like you bleeding at my front door. Come along, now. We'll bandage you up nicely and ring you a cab. I'll grab our doctor fellow and make some tea. Goodness knows those two are still up at this hour, the way Sherlock flits about at night."


	2. Chapter 2

Belle's conspiratorial whispers filled the kitchen.

"What did...what did...drat, how does it go? Oh! What did one saggy tit say to the other saggy tit?" she began, head bent close to the porcelain cow creamer she was conversing with. She waited a beat, then: "Perk up or they'll think we're nuts!"

Mrs. Hudson had deposited Belle Tinker in her dainty, floral kitchen not a minute before, murmuring, "Sit down, dear. I'll fetch John. Oh, I do hope that he is still up and about. I can hear that violin again, so Sherlock must at least be awake."

"Sherry?" Belle chirped, head lolling from side to side as she peered around the kitchen, disoriented, eventually focusing on the older woman with glazed, half-lidded eyes. "Who's Sherry? And Juan? Hugo, where are you going? For drinks? Grand! Begone, Hugo, the drinks await!"

Having been shooed out of her own kitchen by the vigorous flapping of hands, Mrs. Hudson left the young, inebriated girl to her own devices. The echoes of the older woman's footfall ascending a set of stairs could still be heard throughout the first floor of the flat, but was soon drowned out as Belle dissolved into fits of laughter.

"Not funny? No? Drat," she slurred a moment later, having calmed herself enough to nod somberly at the cow creamer. "You must be under a lot of stress."

**One minute & twenty-three seconds later...**

"Did she mention her name?"

"Oh dear, no. I didn't even think to ask. Although the poor girl keeps referring me to someone named Hugo."

"Hugo?"

"Yes, and I was informed that purple is not his color. Or mine, apparently."

"Um, what?"

"Never you mind, John, she's beginning to wake up. And just in time for a cuppa."

Consciousness came slowly to Belle, whose eyes fluttered open to a hazy vision of the kitchen. She blinked lethargically, and when the cloudiness finally cleared, the distinct clink and clatter of porcelain tableware filling her ears were made manifest when Mrs. Hudson set a quaint tea cup and saucer before her.

Belle opened her mouth to give thanks—instead, she released a watery burp. Then hiccuped.

"Phew!" a nearby voice said. "Impressive. Forget a mere pub, I think she may have knocked back an entire distillery. That's _whiskey_ breath. It'll take more than one wink for her to sleep that off."

Belle lurched at the closeness of the voice, swaying in her seat, which caused her vision to swim once again. The pastel colors of the kitchen began to smudge together, causing her to blink rapidly at the profile of a man sitting by her side. It was another moment before the kitchen and all of its shades righted themselves, lightly springing in her chair with each hiccup as she peered doe-eyed at the strange man next to her.

"Hello there," he said in a pleasant voice. "I'm John. What's your name?"

Peering much more closely than social norms suggested, nearly nose-to-nose, Belle drunkenly scrutinized the man named John. He didn't recoil at her proximity, but as her eyes raked his appearance when drawing back, taking in everything from his thick woolen sweater to his sandy blonde hair with narrowing, suspicious eyes, he shifted uncomfortably. Something within her sparked, a sense of harrowing familiarity when surveying his dark blue eyes that caused Belle to immediately tense. Her nostrils flared, fear and seemingly unjustified anger quaking from her insides and spreading like hot jolts of lightning into her fingertips.

She reared back, jolting upright and sending her chair clattering to the floor. Belle breathed raggedly, the edges of her vision blurring once more. The stark confusion upon his face sent her whiskey-addled emotions to skyrocket as flashes of memories streaked across her mind's eye.

He seemed to realize what she was about to do the moment before she did it.

"Whoa, whoa," he started, palms out in surrender. "Calm down. Wait! Wai—_oof_!"

In a surprising motion of grace, Belle swung out and socked him across the face. Like her chair, he was sent clattering to the floor, just less wood and more flailing limbs and woolen sweater. He fought with his own chair as he made to stand, and in her drunken zeal, Belle was readying herself for another go at him. In her periphery she saw Mrs. Hudson clutching her tea pot to her chest. She gave a tremulous shout.

"Sherlock!" the older woman cried, "Do something!"

Belle whirled around, startled by the presence standing remote at the kitchen's threshold. She staggered a step, eyes crossing, dizzy from all the rapid movements her brain was demanding out of her alcohol-riddled body. Her previous burst of anger began to sizzle out of her fingertips until it became completely forgotten, and for the moment she stood blinking, bewildered and disoriented as everything went topsy-turvy. She burped again.

"Why?" came the baritone response from the doorway. "One would assume that John is used to this sort of treatment from women by now."

Doctor John Watson finally removed himself from the kitchen floor, wavering slightly on his feet. He steadied himself against Mrs. Hudson's table, shaking his head in attempt to rid himself of the undulating pain. Then, taking a moment to carefully dab at a tender spot at the corner of his mouth and frowning at the blood on his fingertips, he nodded towards Belle, feeling quite scandalized.

"Thee pundt me rit inda fath!" he garbled, revealing blood-coated teeth.

"Point?"

It was then that Belle's vision began to clear, everything stilling and settling into their right places. Like John, she grasped the edge of the table, steadying herself as she fought for her bearings.

"Well," she slurred to herself. "Thank drunk I'm not God, or this would be fuck as awkward."

A scoff resounded from her right.

"How articulate," came the voice from before, deep tone equal parts bored and derisive. "Mrs. Hudson, please refrain from pulling drunken women off the streets at night, it does not do wonders for John's health. He fortunately has something to blog about now. How riveting."

Belle wobbled, blinking angrily as his appearance slowly focused into view. Her brows furrowed at the sight of him, standing tall and lean in a blue dressing gown, twisting a violin bow between his fingers as he gazed imperiously down his nose at her. The night shadows in the flat brought stark relief to his features, emphasizing his sharp cheekbones and quirked lips. Even in her drunken state, Belle's immediate impression of him was a fusion of eccentricity and haughtiness, and something inherently knowing, possibly volatile, by the way his eyes continued to taper the longer she stared at him.

"You must be Sherry," Belle slurred, eyes accusatory.

He didn't move. She tottered. The alcohol in her bloodstream thrummed with zeal, yet she further zeroed in on the idiosyncratic way his eyes evaluated her in return, warranting that he could read her far more than she could him, inebriated or not. Which Belle detested, and prickled, trying to plaster a menacing glare over the drunken grin on her face, ineffectively looking rather constipated as a result.

"_Sherlock_."

Belle jumped, swiveling to see the man named John glowered over at him. It was becoming increasingly hard to concentrate, so her eyes slid over to Mrs. Hudson, whose cheeks were flushed with something akin to embarrassment.

"Dear God," he breathed, eyes darting between the two. "This truly is fascinating to you, isn't it? She is as intellectually stimulating as the rather large pool of drool she left behind on Mrs. Hudson's table. Bothering to be interested is an insult to those in possession of _two_ functioning brain cells."

"Honestly, Sherlock..." John sighed, then turned to pat Mrs. Hudson's shoulder. "Don't worry, he's in a mood tonight. Hence the violin at one in the morning."

"I am _not_ in a _mood_."

John glared pointedly. There was a moment of silence.

"I apologize, Mrs. Hudson. By the look John's giving me, apparently that was rude."

"No need to apologize, dear." Mrs. Hudson smiled softly. "We're all tired."

Belle giggled, more to herself than anything else, and glanced between the two men. She teetered on her feet again, and just caught herself from tumbling over.

"You two sound like an old married couple."

John bristled. "We're _not_–"

"John, fetch me my revolver."

This seemed to pluck at Belle's inebriated heartstrings even more, because the giggling increased its pitch and tempo until she was bent over the kitchen table, laughing with so much gusto that it became difficult for her to breathe. Suddenly, the kitchen lurched, the muted colors once more seesawing as all her senses went completely haywire.

"Oh, shit," she groused, floundering. "Not again."

One moment she was upright, and then the next Belle found herself cementing all confidence in gravity as the floor started tilting towards her face at a very startling rate. Instinctively, her knees knocked together and stumbled to the side before completely losing all physical faculties. She squeezed her eyes shut before tumbling into something both yielding and solid, and her mind registered that two large hands had grabbed her by the forearms, halting her only fleetingly. The momentum of her fall was too great, however, and therefore caught them both off guard and sent them careening towards Mrs. Hudson's hard kitchen floor.

The grip around her arms became crushing when they were both momentarily airborne, one being sent hurdling face forward, the other blindly bracing himself for impact. They fell with a _whoosh!_ as the air was knocked out of their lungs, both taking a second to groan in pain, settled in a jumble of limbs on the floor.

When she opened her eyes, Belle found herself stretched atop of the strange man named Sherlock, and could feel the silken folds of his dress robe beneath her fingertips, could feel how very warm and very angular he was, that his fingers were now wrapped tightly around her wrists. His labored breathing matched her own, and she blinked with stunned, drunken surprise at him. In new light, so up close, Belle saw how vividly his dark hair contrasted with his pale skin.

And he was regarding her, too—very bold and very bright blue eyes were staring at her with a diagnostically sharp gaze. The more her eyes trailed across his face, however, the more his own narrowed.

"Hey," she breathed, smiling lightly, then pointed at his nose. "You have a booger."


	3. Chapter 3

"Ow."

"Ow."

"Ow!"

"Shit, Juan. _Ow_."

Doctor John Watson suppressed a grin as he stood in front of the kitchen sink, methodically washing his hands and listening to the girl's inebriated, nonsensical chatter. Finishing, he fixed his brows into an exasperated furrow and rounded on her.

"I was done bandaging your hands two minutes ago!"

Various sorts of general medical tackle was spread across the tabletop, and the girl in question was currently affixed on the stark white bandages that had been deftly wrapped around her palms, eyes narrowed with mistrust as she poked at the bindings. The scrapes had proven to be rather superficial—mere shreds of skin that stood like stalagmites, tinted pink with blood that had already coagulated. _Child's play_, he thought, briefly reminiscing over the far worse scenarios he had experienced as an army doctor.

Still, Mrs. Hudson had hovered over his shoulder, twisting her hands in worry as he proficiently cleaned and dressed the girl's abrasions, a result—of all things—over a drunken 'misunderstanding' with a rubbish bin. The corners of John's mouth quirked at the thought, but hurriedly wiped it off when he could feel Sherlock's perpetually vigilant eyes on his face. He had to be careful. Every reaction and response would be filed away in the man's brilliant (if infuriating) mind for later usage.

He smothered another smile.

The world's only consulting detective now stood across from the girl, tucked away in the corner of the kitchen and almost entirely shadowed from sight. It was clear to John that he was still brooding over the Great Booger Incident, having immediately shoved her off of him at her very forthright observation. His back to them, John didn't see Sherlock furtively wipe his nose as he strode irritably to the corner, but the doctor had amused himself with the vision of smoke billowing out of his nostrils like some provoked bull (but, of course, _with a booger_).

Now, John noted that Sherlock stood stiff and remote, his violin bow held in a tight grasp like a swordsman readied to parry. His eyes were tapered and locked onto the girl.

She had stopped poking at her bindings and was peering up at John with large, glazed eyes, regarding him in an almost surprised expression, as if just remembering he was there. "Oh! Right."

Mrs. Hudson sidled up to her, nursing a new cup of tea. "How are you feeling, dear?"

The girl jumped.

"Hugo! Hey. _Hey, hey, hey_. Sorry, that was awfully Fat Albert of me. Unforgivable. You got a drink? I could go for a drink. Drinks all around!" the girl stood, effectively knocking her chair aside. Her hands then clenched the air above the tabletop, clearly envisioning a pint of beer to toast with. She looked at Mrs. Hudson with sad eyes. "Hugo, where's my drink?"

A deep, standoffish voice then came from the corner, sounding much more petulant than goaded.

"Who the bloody hell is Hugo?" Sherlock demanded, eyes not once leaving the girl's face. He seemed incensed of the fact that he had to ask.

John quirked a brow in his direction. "Haven't you deduced that yet?"

"Oh, what enviable wit."

John turned towards the girl, an amused smile playing on his lips. He ignored the barely audible grumble from the corner, and instead focused his attention on how Mrs. Hudson had persuaded her back into the chair, helping her to cradle a fresh cup of tea into unsteady hands. His landlady patted the girl's back, speaking in soft, comforting whispers. The girl immediately relaxed, shoulders slumping, eyelids fluttering together with a small, serene smile across her face.

The doctor tilted his head to the side, noticing just how pretty the girl was when not in a drunken frenzy. Pretty, but certainly peculiar. Her lips were chapped and she had the most unruly mop of hair he had ever seen—a long mass of dark waves that went past her chest, cut unevenly and beginning to frizz. And she was _tiny_, dressed in tattered jeans, boots two sizes too large, and a white cotton shirt that bore fresh beer stains on the front. But her face had a lovely flush from the alcohol racing in her bloodstream, and a dimpled smile that cocked to the side. Her eyes were gray, both very bright and expressive, with epicanthic folds, suggesting Asian heritage. Her voice, however, was lilted with a very strong Irish brogue.

When tending to her hands, John had smelled something both floral and burnt, and possibly something papery beneath it all.

The smile soon vanished from her face, brows furrowing in abrupt panic. Her nostrils flared, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Hugo? Where are you?" she said, gripping the table's edge. "I can't _see_."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Open your eyes."

"Oh," she said, blinking her eyes with relief, the glowered over at the detective. "Shut it, Sherry, you uncontrollable kumquat."

John failed to suppress a snort of amusement, resulting in a very disdainful glower from Sherlock, who surprisingly remained silent. John watched him once again fasten his concentration onto the girl, eyes scarcely blinking, and turned to find her staring questioningly at Mrs. Hudson.

"Hugo?" she queried. "Drinkie drink?"

"I think you've had enough for one night, dear. Drink your tea. Then maybe you should think of getting some rest."

"You should get some rest too, Mrs. Hudson. It's a bit late," John said, moving to take her cup and saucer, setting it carefully in the sink, then nodded to the girl. "We'll take care of this one."

"No drinks?" the girl mumbled, looking down at her bandaged hands. "Sad now."

For a moment John thought he heard a nearly restrained snort from the corner, but his attention was pulled when Mrs. Hudson gently grabbed one of the girl's hands in her own. "You get some rest, all right?"

The girl blinked at their joined hands. "Why are you taking my hand? Now I'm left with only one."

Mrs. Hudson ignored her. "Goodnight, dear."

"You're leaving? Can I have your drink? Wait!" she abruptly stood, grasping Mrs. Hudson's hand in return. She looked at the older woman with sincere, glossy eyes. "Wait. Wait, wait. I just want to say...that you...well, this is awkward. But purple _is_ your color, Hugo, no matter what I...uh, said. Yes. That was...um, that was awfully say of me to rude."

Mrs. Hudson patted her hand. "No need to apologize."

"But when did you grow boobs?"

The next moment saw Mrs. Hudson retreating down the hall to her bedroom, smiling in amusement despite herself. The remaining three watched the older woman disappear from view, and John was momentarily lost in thought when he saw the girl shift in his periphery. Her chair squeaked as she leaned forward.

"Psst."

John peered down at her. "What?"

"_Psst_."

His lips twitched. "What?"

"Hey. Hey, you."

"What?"

"Juan."

"It's John," he smiled.

"Juan?"

"_John_."

"Oh, right. Juan."

"_No_, John."

"I'm not Juan."

"Neither am I."

"Dir. You're John."

"No, wait...yes!"

"Will you two–" Sherlock bristled in the corner. "–_shut up_."

John found himself nearly breaking into a grin, especially when the girl peered at Sherlock and blinked owlishly at him, neither surprised nor affronted by his outburst. She shifted her gaze back to him, her glazed gray eyes momentarily gleaming mischievously although her expression remained completely ingenuous.

She waited a beat.

"Juan, methinks Sherry's suffering from of some serious premenstrual syndrome," she stated, then met Sherlock's hawkish gaze. "Hey, you need a heating pad? Tiramisu? Floral scented tampon? You're being awfully fussy."

John openly laughed at this, unable to contain himself. Sherlock ignored him and tapered his eyes into a rapt, threatening glare. John knew immediately he was in a dangerous mood, but there was something strange within the look in his eyes. But nothing so strange that John couldn't detect himself. He was taking umbrage from the girl, but he was _curious_—an even more dangerous thing when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock's grip on the violin bow tightened, and when he spoke his voice was restrained, firm, and very cold.

"What's—your—name?"

The girl clenched and unclenched her bandaged hands. A lock of hair fell into her face, and she brushed it aside to the rest of her unruly mane, brows furrowing as she mused over the question with great consideration. She hummed for a moment, and then her eyes brightened.

"Uh, Belle. Yes? No? Wait. Kidding. It's Belle. Belle something. Something with, uh...shit. Not literal shit, but mechanical shit. Dude that does shit with mechanical shit," she began, squishing her lips together in thought. A moment later, eyes wide with epiphany, she exclaimed: "Tinker! Yes! Belle Tinker. Put _that_ in your pipe and smoke it, 007. Why do you want to know, Sherry? Am I doing great with you?"

At this, John perceived the rather unpleasant look that Sherlock was giving Belle, and stepped in before he verbally lash her to pieces. The detective was just beginning to prickle when he stepped forward and smiled kindly to her.

"Is there someone we can call for you?" John asked. "A friend? Family member? Do you have a mobile?"

"Don't bother," Sherlock stated brusquely, looking less like he was gnashing his teeth and more like his customary self, complete with imperious stare. His eyes narrowed on Belle, flicking from her waist to her wrists to her hair and settling intently on her face. "It's not on her."

There was a moment of silence wherein Belle leaned against the table, matching Sherlock's unwavering stare. John found himself suddenly as the median between two very unpredictable and very contrasting personalities, and tensed as the air between the two grew very weighty, their eyes locked on the others—one cold and calculating, the other glassy and disoriented. Her eyes tapered, chapped lips settling into a thin line as she scrutinized Sherlock the way he did her.

"Look at it," she whispered. "It's just dangling there."

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "Look at _what_?"

"Your bogey."

John gurgled. As he attempted to muffle his laughter, doing his best to cover his mouth, Sherlock rounded on him, blue eyes flashing. John shrugged in defeat, grinning. "I think she's messing with you, S_herry_."

"A valued deduction, _Juan_," Sherlock countered. He turned to Belle. "Do you remember your address?"

"Um, _sí_?"

"Good. John, phone a taxi. I'll see to it that she makes it home. Wouldn't want her to drunkenly barge into any other residences, would we?"

It was John's turn to blink owlishly at Sherlock.

"You will?" he asked, frowning. "Why?"

Sherlock regarded him with a cool stare, one that—like many others of his—was nearly impossible to interpret. Beyond the stare, however, John saw something he was now accustomed to comprehend. Something that was beginning to bring that keyed up gleam into the detective's eyes—something that was much more than curiosity, but the stimulation of a new case. John looked between Belle and Sherlock, the former once again poking her bandages (_Ow_) and the later slowly raising an impatient brow.

"Clearly she will need all of the help she can get."

John scoffed. "Yes, certainly, but why _you_?"

Sherlock lifted his chin. "Why not me?"

John was immediately suspicious, but rather than arguing with him, he sighed wearily. He pinched the bridge of his nose, gesturing to the girl, too exhausted to deliberate over Sherlock's perpetually indecipherable motives any further.

"Fine," he breathed. "Fine. It's a good arrangement as any, especially in her state. She's still quite legless, after all."

John missed the very faint smile of victory on Sherlock's face, especially when Belle's head shot up and she regarded the doctor with the utmost of surprise, mouth agape.

"Legless? What do you mean legless? Legolas? Am I in Middle Earth? Is this Bag End?" she asked, peering around Mrs. Hudson's kitchen with awe, then locked her gaze onto John. She gasped, "And you're Bilbo, _aren't you_?"


	4. Chapter 4

A dressing gown was launched towards John's face the moment he set foot into the flat. He paused at the doorway, mobile suspended midair from having just ended a call with a cabbie, and blinked wearily at his flatmate when the silken folds slid to the floor. Sherlock tapered his eyes.

"Shut up."

John sighed as he pocketed his mobile and meandered over to his chair, ignoring how the consulting detective was regarding him with his trademark cool, unflinching gaze. Sherlock was also in the midst of stalking the length of the living room, agitatedly buttoning a shirt over his chest. His pajamas had been haphazardly thrown onto the sofa.

"I didn't say a thing," John responded, suppressing another sigh because this was not the first time Sherlock had initiated a conversation in this manner. He raked a hand tiredly over his face and settled himself into a more comfortable position.

Sherlock's expression was scathing, one that was not unfamiliar to the doctor.

"I don't want to hear it," he said, pivoting on his heel and turning his back to John, resuming his pacing as he tucked the end of his shirt into his trousers.

John's lips twitched, but kept his tone nonchalant. "Don't want to hear what?"

"I told you to shut up."

"And I told you," John retorted, eyeing the detective. "I didn't say a thing."

"No," Sherlock's eyes narrowed again. "But I know what you're thinking. Stop it."

"Oh? A telepathist now too, are you?"

Sherlock raised his chin into the air, gazing imperiously down his nose at him. In one swift movement he whisked the dressing gown from off the floor, folded it promptly while his eyes narrowed on John, and then abruptly—and rather effectively—used it as a projectile once more.

"You are ten seconds away from asking me what I've deduced about her," he replied, deep voice rumbling as irritation flashed in his eyes. "Stop playing coy, it's annoying."

John removed the meddlesome cloth from his face once more, tossing it to join the pajamas strewn across the sofa. He raised a brow at Sherlock, attempting to look put off as he took another moment of silence to further provoke his flatmate. Then he shrugged.

"All right, fine. Fine. Leave it to you to see right through me. Or everything," he said, smiling when Sherlock snorted. "What have you got?"

Sherlock halted. He took a very deep breath, his chest rising and pulling at the buttons of his shirt, and closed his eyes. For a moment, John was stunned to see that his brows furrowed in an expression of uncertainty. Then his eyes snapped open, exhaled in a huff, regarded John with a penetrating glance and commenced his pacing. He buttoned the cuffs of his plum-colored shirt with swift flicks of his wrists, lips moving very faintly as he racked his brain. When he finished, he abruptly halted once more, hands pressing together into his characteristic prayer pose, fingertips pressing against his lips. Finally, he sighed, looking disgruntled as he turned on his heel.

He glanced at John.

"She's..." Sherlock paused. "Irish."

John blinked. Then began sputtering.

"Really, Sherlock?" John choked on a laugh. "Any bloke off the street could gather that, or are my ears deceiving me? Don't tell me you haven't gathered her mother's maiden name, her favorite program on the telly, or whether or not she's a pathological liar by the pattern of the beer stains on her shir–"

"_Shut up_."

"How is this possible? You've got nothing?" John's lips pressed into a smirk, always savoring the moments when getting a rise out of Sherlock. "Honestly, I never thought I'd see the day. Who would have thought a completely arseholed girl would manage to elude the almighty Sherlock Holmes? I like her already."

Sherlock pulled on his jacket. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

John grinned. "Immensely."

The consulting detective straightened, clearly taking this as a challenge, and rose to the bait.

"She's Irish," Sherlock repeated, his tone taking on its quick, calculating timbre whenever he began citing facts in rapid-fire sequence—or, to John, _showing off_, even if it never ceased to astound. "Southern by the dialect. Connacht, presumably—Galway, or maybe the Aran Islands. She's been in London for nine days, three hours, and, oh—" he glanced at the clock. "—eight minutes."

"How could you possibly narrow the time down to that?"

Sherlock's lips quirked triumphantly, strode over to the couch and produced a small, rectangular piece of paper between two fingers. "Plane ticket. Aer Lingus. Boarded from Shannon Airport."

"How on earth did you get–"

"When she displayed her inebriated lack of grace and tumbled into me. It was in her back pocket."

"So, not only did you essentially pick-pocket her," John smirked again. "But you touched her bum in the process. It's all very clear to me now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sliding the plane ticket into the inner-pocket of his jacket. He continued, giving the doctor another scathing look. "Mid-twenties, a student by the state of her nails—gnawed to the ends and stained in various shades of ink. Paper-cuts as well. Also, and more interestingly enough, she is quite adept at fist fighting."

John frowned. "Fist fighting? That small thing? You reasoned that because she happened to clout me in the face?"

"Oh, no. No, John, I happened to reason that because if she had not been utterly intoxicated and hadn't stumbled, that right hook would have thrown you to the ground, possibly rendering you unconscious. Her form was precise, a movement her body was well attuned with," Sherlock said shrewd delight. Then he scowled, looking at the doctor with disappointment. "How could you not have noticed? You bandaged her _hands_, John. Did you not detect the scars littering her knuckles, or the callouses? No. No, that 'small thing', as you put it, is not quite as jovial as you would believe. Not sober, anyway. She's also misplaced her mobile. Women her age do not venture anywhere, especially a new city, without it."

"She could have misplaced it."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, turning as he began to resume his pacing. "The front pockets of her denims are fake, and the back were a mere inch and a half in depth—not very plausible for carrying a mobile. Where would she keep it? No purse, no money, no ID. She left in a hurry—hours ago by the age of the beer stains on her shirt. Statistics show that 73% of alcohol consumption is stimulated from emotional quandaries. A row, maybe?"

"With a boyfriend?"

Sherlock dithered. "Perhaps."

"She's new to London. Maybe she was feeling lonely."

"No. She had every intention of making it home for the night, otherwise she wouldn't have mistaken our flat for her own. If she had been truly lonesome then some drunkard would have offered her a bed for the night. No, she had a row before leaving for the pub, and had left in a hurry. I wonder..." Sherlock drifted off, his thoughts clearly ruminating. He seemed to snap out of it, however, tone becoming blasé as ever. "Otherwise, she has nothing to offer. Everything else is child's play—the ticket, the ink stains, and her penchant for Jameson and Smithwicks. She is completely uninhibited. Boring. Dull. She'd tell you her life's story in that state given adequate incitement. No, I'll bide my time."

John's gaze turned thoughtful, watching as Sherlock adjusted his suit jacket more comfortably around his shoulders. A moment passed, and when Sherlock peered up, his eyes immediately narrowed suspiciously on his flatmate.

"What?"

"You'll bide your time?" John repeated with a raised brow. "You _are_ curious."

Sherlock raised his chin, lips pressing together, clearly unimpressed.

"I do not have all the facts in her current state."

"Is she truly that much of an enigma to peak your interest this badly?" John teased, settling back into his chair, watching with amusement as the detective glowered at him. "So badly that you even offered to see her home?"

"Stop reading into this, John," Sherlock's tone was almost scornful. "All I can deduce from that girl is that she is hiding something and I want to know what."

"Hiding something? What could she possibly be hiding?"

"Everyone hides something. It's a fact of life. It's entrenched within the very nature of humankind. Some are just more clever about hiding them than others," Sherlock said, then frowned at the doctor. "You were there when she punched you in the face, were you not?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You did not see the flash of complete rational anger in her eyes before doing so?" Sherlock said, sighing with frustration at John's expression of ignorance. "You look _familiar_ to her, John, even if in just that split second. I want to know _why_."

"She's pissed! Completely mad."

"Come now, even you know that's the whiskey talking," Sherlock scolded, then ran a hand along his jaw. His expression turned pensive, and muttered: "But why? Why would she do that? Why–"

John snorted. "Punch me or inform you of an impending bogey?"

Sherlock twisted around, narrowing his icy gaze on him, but not before subconsciously rubbing the tip of his nose. The joke, however, was lost on him. "Shall I inform you of an impending beating? No, John,_ punch_ you. Are you even trying to be a part of this conversation?"

John smirked. "You may be a genius, Sherlock, but you can be a daft liar sometimes."

"Pardon?"

"I think you are far more interested than you care to admit. You know something. Something more than what you're letting on," John's pleasant smile was offset by the glimmer of mischievousness in his eyes. He reached over and grabbed his laptop. "No need to worry, I won't push the matter. But at least you made a _friend_ tonight, _Sherry_."

"Do the world a favor and shut up," Sherlock responded derisively, pivoting on a heel and grabbing his coat. "Stop insulting my intelligence, it merely insults your own. How long?"

John peered up from his laptop. "How long until what?"

"The cabbie arrives."

"Any minute now, which is a good thing. It's probably a mistake leaving her alone downstairs," John said, glancing towards the door. "You know, to her own devices and all."

Sherlock raised a brow as he buttoned his coat. "What exactly do you think she is capable of in her state? The worse she can do is stumble over a chair and lose her tea all over Mrs. Hudson's recently dusted china."

John chuckled at that the thought, missing how a ghost of a smile flitted across Sherlock's lips. The detective quickly pulled on a pair of leather gloves, looping his signature indigo scarf around his neck.

"And you're going to see her home," John stated, still amused. "because Sherlock Holmes is a gentleman and will refrain from gleaning information out of drunk, mysterious women."

"Of course," Sherlock replied, an almost devious glint in his eyes as he strode to the door. "Where would the fun be in that?"


	5. Chapter 5

Belle narrowed her eyes.

Baker Street spread out before her, empty and eerily quiet during witching hour. It had been drizzling during her interlude inside 221B, causing the streetlamps that dotted the walkways to reflect their orange haze against the puddles in the street. Her eyes darted from one end of the street to the other, breaching the night silence with a cackle.

"Penis," she whispered, and commenced to stifle a bout of giggles.

As if in response, the door to 221 behind her was slammed closed. Belle jumped, eyes widening like a frightened foal, and whirled around. She found herself colliding face-first into a hard chest, nosing skimming the rough tweed fabric of a coat, and caught the faint, familiar scent of tobacco comingled with soap. She jerked back, swaying precariously on her feet until a hand shot out and steadied her by the shoulder.

"Bloody hell," Belle said, blinking her eyes rapidly in surprise and craning her gaze upward. She blinked again, the streetlamp close by causing the edges of her vision to temporarily cloud. "Where the hell did you come from, Sherry? Did Scotty beam you up?"

The icy blue eyes that were regarding her solemnly, face nearly expressionless, flickered over her shoulder. Belle swayed, turning to glance at whatever caught his attention. A cab was slowly making its way towards them, headlights dipping, the sound of its tires sloshing becoming more pronounced as it drove closer.

When Belle glanced back, she smiled goofily, ignorant of the fact that she was being intensively watched. Sherlock promptly withdrew his hand, taking a half a step away from her. She swayed again, unsupported, watching him watch her with his shrewd, careful stare.

"Hey," she said.

He raised a brow.

"Hey, you. Sherry."

His eyes narrowed. "It's Sherlock."

"Sure thing, Sherry. _Hey_."

"What?"

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" he responded tetchily.

Belle smothered a sloppy grin, pointing at him and almost falling over from the amount of gusto she put into the gesture. "Like you suffer from chronic constipation and I'm a vat full of prune juice."

Sherlock was in the midst of responding, brows furrowed and lips parting to offer his own caustic observation, when the taxi pulled up in front of them. He closed his mouth, ignored the drunken gleam of mischief in Belle's eyes, and strode forward to open the cab's door.

"Evening," he greeted the cabbie, then pivoted on his heel to Belle. "Your address."

Belle's face crumpled into confusion. "Address?"

He sighed heavily at that, closing his eyes for a moment. When he spoke, Sherlock's voice was an even deeper baritone from the barely restrained irritation it held. "Where do you live?"

"In a flat."

"Clearly, as you've mistaken mine for yours. Where?"

Belle deliberated, mashing her lips together and hunching her shoulders as a chilly draft of wind blew up the street. She pushed away the unruly mane of hair from her face with uncoordinated movement, then began rubbing the exposed flesh of her arms, wincing at her bandaged hands. Humming, and having dutifully forgotten that she'd been asked a question, Belle enraptured herself with a nearby puddle.

"Where do you live?" Sherlock repeated, voice clipped.

Belle jumped. "On a street."

"_What_ street?"

"My street."

"_Woman_."

"_Sherry_."

The responding glare that Belle received immediately exterminated her next vague, drunken reply, and she blinked innocently in response, startled by the sheer vehemence radiating off him. She swallowed hard, then commenced to shrug as she gazed about her surroundings.

"Um, 323 Glentworth Street. Right? Right. Wait, who am I talking to?" Belle questioned, peering into the dark, empty streetside to her left. She blinked in confusion, then, noticing Sherlock once more, revelation etched across her face. "Oh, right. Not me. Sherry! _Hey_, how are you? Taking a cab somewhere? Wotcha, cabbie!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "323 Glentworth Street," he repeated, grabbing her arm to gain her full attention. "Are you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure," Belle said, peering down at the fingers wrapped firmly around her wrist. Then, a beat: "Sure."

"Of course you would live the next street over," Sherlock muttered, then turned to the cab driver and nodded. "Apologies. We won't be needing your services tonight. Cheers."

Sherlock slammed the door before the driver could respond, and promptly turned his heel to face Belle, expression unreadable. It was when another waft of wind fanned between them that his eyes narrowed in scrutiny once more. It was a mere nighttime gust, chilly but not strong, yet Belle drunkenly stumbled from the force of it in her too large boots. She righted herself at the last moment, then proceeded to chatter her teeth from the chill. She scrunched her nose, peering down at the tip with crossed-eyes, noticing how the wind had nipped it red.

"Hah," she said, pointing at her nose. "R-r-r-rudolph."

Sherlock remained impassive for a moment, watching her. Then, abruptly, he bent to meet her on eye-level. Her brows rose from the sudden closeness, eyes wide and startled and momentarily crossed, locking onto the point of his index finger that he had thrust in front of her face.

"Stay," he commanded, eyes daring her to defy him.

Belle, instead, gave a wobbly salute. "Sir, yes sir."

He turned and briskly disappeared back into 221, door slamming shut behind him. He was gone for all of thirty seconds, but it was twenty seconds too long before an impish grin slowly expanded across Belle's face. She swayed, faltering once more as she turned to the unpeopled street. Belle pushed aside a lock of hair from her face, licking her chapped lips, eyeing up the roadway with drunken mirth, as though she was about to share some great secret with the world.

"Penis," she confided, chortling and shivering against the wind's cold. Then, taking a lungful of oxygen and whipping her head back, Belle crowed to the night sky, "_PENIIIS!_"

There was a click of a lock and suddenly a hand shot out, covering her mouth. Belle panicked, attempting to wrench herself away from the constricting grip of supple leather gloves. She then recognized the scent of tobacco and suds and began to relax, yet still moved her lips against the gloves to speak. She scowled when she couldn't.

"_Quiet_," Sherlock's resonant voice rumbled against her back. "You'll wake someone, which will leave me to listen to their incessant blithering. We don't want that."

He removed his hand, leaving Belle to face him, the impish grin once again cornering her lips. She tottered, gray eyes glazed and gleaming in the streetlight.

"Penis," Belle whispered, compromising. Then, eyes brightening: "Do you have a penis? Methinks you do, Sherry. Because you're a dude. And lots of dudes have penises. Penis! Penises all around!"

Sherlock sneered. "Shut up."

"Why?" Belle questioned, blinking at him, face etched with utter seriousness. "I don't have a penis. Penis! Wait, shit. I just committed some sort of social faux pas, haven't I?"

Sherlock's lips twitched, but looked away from her very expressive eyes. "Yes, but fortunately for you I happen to be quite adept at breaking them. Or so I have been told."

"Groovy, baby. I can dig it."

Sherlock nearly snorted, but instead made a noise in the back of his throat that read he was far from impressed. Yet when Belle shuddered from the cold the wind left behind, rubbing at the goosebumps that had blossomed across her skin, Sherlock straightened and produced a thick, woolen shawl from within his coat.

He offered it to her, face devoid of emotion. "It's Mrs. Hudson's–"

"Hugo!"

"_No_. Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock corrected impatiently. "You do know how a shawl works, don't you? Even for someone who is completely pissed?"

"Who's pissed?" Belle cocked her head to the side. "I'm not pissed. I'm Belle."

Sherlock spoke through clenched teeth. "_Take—it_."

"Why?"

Sherlock lowered his gaze, leveling her with the fiercest of glares. She remained unfazed by this, by the hawkish shrewdness of the detective's eyes, or how they held the power to render the average person dumbstruck, not curious. The thought zipped through Sherlock's mind, which annoyed him.

"Why?" she repeated.

He nearly growled. "It will keep you warm."

"Says who?"

He seemed to deliberate on a response for a moment, then exhaled sharply, breath crystallizing into the night air as he strode forward. In one swift movement, before Belle could blink or comprehend what was occurring or whisper 'penis', the shawl had been looped around her shoulders and tied deftly across her chest. He had been careful not to touch her, keeping his distance as much as humanly possible without the space impeding his work. He remained expressionless, nostrils only slightly flared from being provoked, and instantaneously stepped back once he finished.

"Says I," he said. "Now come along."

Before Belle could utter a response, he was walking past her, shoulders set, hands stuffed into the pockets of his long, tweed coat. Belle blinked once or twice before her cognitive reasoning managed to persuade her to follow after the man. She teetered after him, a slow process that had her clutching at her head when her vision immediately turned topsy-turvy, colors merging together into mind-numbing static fuzz. Belle made it halfway down the street when the black speckle of his silhouette bled across her entire line of sight.

And, in effect, nearly tumbled into yet another rubbish bin.

He was at her side before the collision could occur, grasping her tightly by the elbow. He hadn't exuded any effort in the process, merely appeared and plucked her into an upright position, keeping his grip on her as Belle blinked repeatedly to regain her vision. He was warm, and he was very close. If Belle hadn't been so inebriated, she would have taken note that he was analyzing her, taking in every facet and feature to be catalogued now that he was close enough to do so. His stoic expression never wavered, chin raised was he peered down at her.

Once Belle was finally able to focus, she peered up at Sherlock, a faint smile on her face, one that would have been almost considered lovely had it not been drunkenly cockeyed. For a millisecond, Sherlock's eyes lingered on a dimple that had appeared.

"Well, hello there," she slurred, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. "Come here often?"

His already cold gaze turned to ice. Sherlock retracted his hand and stuffed it back into his pocket. He did, however, remain in close proximity of her. When Belle straightened, she ran a hand through her mussed waves, brows furrowing.

"What the... hey, where the hell is my hat?"

"You weren't wearing one."

"Oh. Well, shit," Belle said, sighing. She peered up at him then, blinking her eyes slowly as she registered just how close they were. Her eyes took in his face, the very white skin, the sharp blue eyes and even sharper cheekbones, then, finally, lingering on the dark tumbles of his hair, unaware that she was still be thoroughly studied in return. Instead, Belle clutched her hands to her heart, deeming it necessary to bat her eyelashes dramatically, saying, "You have beautiful eyes."

Sherlock snorted, turning away. Belle missed the brief flicker of a smile on his face, but he halted after taking a couple steps. His raised a brow. "Coming?"

Belle grinned, taking careful, deliberate steps until she was standing at his side. He initiated their journey to cross the street, his strides long and determined, but then he seemed to have reminded himself to slow his pace for her. He sighed heavily through his nostrils, waiting for her to catch up as he checked his speed.

"Sherry?"

Sherlock turned his head, catching Belle's curious, bright-eyed gaze. He raised both brows in recognition of her query.

"You're tall," she stated.

"I'm aware," he replied blandly. "Thank you for sharing such astute observational skills."

"I can see up your nose. You have_ boogers_."

Sherlock locked his hands behind his back, slowing his stride to a casual stroll. He pressed his lips together, but his eyes crinkled slyly when he responded with, "Yes, and I can see the top of your head. You have _dandruff_."

Belle mulled over this. "Touché."

It was at this point that they reached the curb, and Belle eyed it warily. Having sensed her stop behind him, Sherlock turned to see that she was still quite unsteady on her feet, shawl wrapped tightly around her small, alcohol-riddled body. She caught his gaze, and before he could take another step or open his mouth, Belle had already leaned forward and caught his arm. She held onto him for support, encircling an arm around his and pressing it to her side.

Sherlock froze.

Belle, even in her state, felt every muscle she was pressed against tense. Even peering up, she saw that his face was taut, eyes boring into her with a fixed, contemptuous stare. There was also surprise and something akin to wariness.

But he did not shake her off.

Instead, he took a deep breath, and she felt his ribs expand against her arm as he did so, and looked away. His jaw was clenched, his back rim-rod straight. He took a step forward, slow and easy, and then another, aiding her as she tottered along. Her head swam dizzily, feeling very suddenly lethargic and in desperate need of sleep. She stifled a yawn, leaning heavily against the detective, her small hand curling inside the woolen crook of his elbow to retain warmth against the night's wind.

Two minutes later saw the two standing outside of 323 Glentworth Street. Belle was still leaning against Sherlock, a dopey smile plastered on her face as she stared at the sign printed on the cherry-red front door before them. Sherlock, however, was expeditiously dissecting every aspect of the building, from the chipped green paint over the brick facade, to the yellowed windows, to the calligraphic text before his eyes.

"_Belle's Books: Buys & Sells Used Opuses, the Terminologically Exact and Inexact, and Other Printed Figments of the Mind—Worms are Welcome, Wankers are Not_," he recited, then turned his attention down to Belle, quirking a brow. "A bookshop?" his eyes narrowed, "Interesting."

There was a moment of silence.

"Bloody hell!" Belle cursed, words slurring as she fought to remain conscious.

Sherlock peered down at her, especially when she withdrew her hold on him. She was currently padding her backside, wavering precariously on her feet. Her dark hair spilled across her face as her search grew more and more fervent, and even more colorful words slipping past her lips. Sherlock watched her for a moment, amused despite himself.

"You dropped it."

Belle peered up at him through strands of hair. "Huh?"

"Your key," he reiterated, "Dropped in your drunken zeal, no doubt."

Belle sighed drowsily, rubbing her eyes with bandaged hands. "This is going to seriously affect my morale."

"No matter," Sherlock replied, hand reaching out and flicking something quickly out of her hair.

Belle stumbled back, startled, and tapered her eyes to see the slim black object in the detective's long fingers. She tilted her head to the side, bemused. He made quick work with the bobby-pin, twisting it open and inserting it within the keyhole of the varnished, brass doorknob.

"Excelsior," Belle said, then patted her head. "What else is up there?"

The door clicked open a moment later and Sherlock let himself inside before Belle, flicking on the lights and instantaneously peering around the shop, soaking in each and every attribute he could. He circled, eyes glancing from one thing to the next, never needing to linger on anything for long. Belle barged in after him, nearly tripping over the threshold. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, smiling so widely that Sherlock found himself once again lingering on those dimples.

The shop was very quaint. It was evident that it had long ago been a small pub. The flooring had been cobbled in a crude manner, stone cut unevenly and a current tripping hazard to its intoxicated owner. What walls were left to be seen were a whitewashed, crackling stone, but nearly every inch of the one-room shop was covered by various styles of bookshelves, some crumbling, some a thick mahogany, others a bright canary yellow with strange stains on the sides. Books were everywhere, not only having filled every shelf to capacity, but littered the ground in stacks and columns, forming strange, whirling pathways from one end of the shop to the other. There was an alcove on the right side of the shop, a nook with a lopsided side-table and a plush, velveteen lounger in a verdant shade of green; the wall behind it became shorter and shorter until it was clear that the customer would have to crawl along the floor to read the book titles.

At the other side of the room, Sherlock noted the hidden entrance to another room behind a bookcase, and felt his fingers twitch with insatiable curiosity to peer inside.

Near the back of the shop was where the old bar stood, now used as a raised desk with an old register and phone settled on one end. Strewn across it were various bottles of wine (all empty), the last remnants of fermented grapes having stained the wooden counter-top. The room smelled of cheap liquor, burnt coffee, of used, aged books, and the sweet tang of incense.

"Home shit home," Belle muttered, opening her eyes, and venturing forth through the fray of books.

Sherlock was momentarily impressed how she trekked through the piles of books without so much as a stumble into them, but journeyed towards the back of the shop where an old Persian blanket was draped across a doorway.

He followed her, traversing the bookmarked pathway, keeping an eye on Belle. Beyond the blanketed doorway was a small kitchen, and Sherlock was once again amused to see how abused it was. It was clear that Belle Tinker, owner of Belle's Books, could not cook if her life depended upon it. There was little cookware to be seen, the cupboards open and nearly bare, and Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that the same was true of the refrigerator. There were few dirty dishes in the sink, which were beginning to grow interesting shades of mold. The faint scent of asian take-out seemed to permanently hang in the air.

Belle disappeared behind another door to the right, ambling up a flight of moldering, blue-carpeted stairs. At one point she stumbled in her frenzy to the flat above, and Sherlock once again caught her by the arm. He righted her, ignoring how small but strong she felt to him, how beneath the strident aroma of whiskey he could detect her magnolia-scented shampoo.

In response, she ducked her head beneath her arm, peering at him with a now trademark impish grin. "Thanks much, Sherry. You're mighty useful. I think I'll keep you around."

The stairs led to an upper level which contained a narrow hallway decked in floral wallpaper, which smelled less like used books and more like the hint of incense he had detected before. And magnolias. There were three doors, and Sherlock once again twitched his fingers to open the two closed ones they passed. _Later_, he promised himself, and followed the girl, feeling much more curious than he though necessary.

Belle flung the last door open, rushing inside to unceremoniously plop herself onto a bed. Like the shop and the rest of the flat, it was remarkably small. However, unlike the rest of the shop and what little he had seen of the flat, it was remarkably tidy.

Like the shop, the walls were white and crackling, but was offset with minimal pieces of low-rise black furniture. A tatami bed centered one wall, nearly taking up the expanse of the room, with a dresser on one side and a pagoda lamp on the other. Above the bed a long, lethal-looking katana was displayed, the blade ornately etched with markings Sherlock had never seen before. On the lone wall opposite the blade, a vastly elegant kimono was hanging from a rack, the only item of true color in the room; the heavy silken folds picked up the light, illuminating the intricate depiction of a dragon scrolled across the obi. It was a soft golden color, with highlights of red cherry blossoms, swirling with subtle shades of jade greens and sky blues. The room cemented more than one of his previous analysis of her, and he eyed the kimono with great interest, but filed them away for further inspection.

Then, as Belle turned over on her bed, Sherlock stood at the threshold, feeling just a minuscule of discomfort. He had been in many odd—often dangerous—situations, but no situation quite like this. She sighed heavily, raking a hand across her face as she stared at him.

"What?" Sherlock asked rather harshly, abruptly unsure about this strange, inebriated girl and not liking it one bit.

"Bored," she muttered, eyes beginning to flutter. "Are you bored, Sherry?"

Sherlock was silent, allowing himself time to peer into every corner of the bedroom before answering. He sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat and locking his spine, eyes landing once more on her.

"You're not bored, you're exhausted. And no," he stated pragmatically, his deep voice barely quieting when he continued, "I'm not bored."

As he pulled his gaze away from her to the kimono, Sherlock caught Belle shrug in his periphery and burrow herself even deeper into multiple quilts, and noted it was rather cold inside her flat. She yawned, brushing aside a lock of hair from her eyes. The cockeyed grin appeared, then faded away as her eyes closed and her breathing began to even out.

"Well, catch you on the flipside. And don't forget to wipe your nose. You may be like ice, Sherry, but you'll never make bogeys cool."

— — —

The moment Sherlock Holmes entered 221B Baker Street from having walked Belle Tinker to 323 Glentworth Street, Doctor John Watson opened his mouth only to find himself fixing the detective with a look of utter confusion. He hadn't moved from his position when Sherlock had left, nearly fifteen minutes prior, his laptop still powered on and opened to his blog, a cup of tea sitting on his left.

The very faint smile of triumph that now adorned the only consulting detective's face, as it always had in the past, brought a wave of wariness and suspicion to the doctor. His mouth agape, John furrowed his brow and watched as Sherlock closed the door to their flat and flung his coat onto the sofa. He was peering down at his palm, and—finally shutting his mouth—John saw something small and smooth glimmer in the warm light of the living room.

"Well?" he prompted.

Sherlock didn't respond, but the smile fell off his face, the pensiveness in his eyes hardening back into its mold of cool, shrewd concentration. He clenched his fist, encasing whatever was inside.

"A key," he said, flicking his gaze towards John and smiling cockeyed. "I_ found_ it."

"A key?" John repeated, lost and confused, and definitely not for the first time when it came to Sherlock Holmes. "A key to what?"

"She lost it," Sherlock said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and throwing it on his growing pile of clothes atop the sofa. He pivoted towards John, eyes gleaming with sheer keenness. "And I found it."

"Found it where?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock queried, mind clearly legions away. "Oh. Outside in the gutter."

"So..." John began. "You found her key and...?"

Sherlock scowled. "And what?"

John laughed, disbelieving. "And what? And you're going to return it to her, aren't you?"

Sherlock straightened at that, eyes tapering on his flatmate. He turned his back towards him, picking up his skull from the mantelpiece and tucking the key inside, almost tangibly feeling the look of disapproval on John's face.

"Sherlock!"

"_What?_"

"You are going to return that key, that key to her _flat_, her _home_, the building where she _lives_, aren't you?"

Sherlock prickled. "I was planning on it."

"Tomorrow."

"Eventually," he modified.

John rubbed his eyes, exasperated. "Sherlock, you know as well as I do that if you truly wanted to bust into her flat to poke about her life—or anyone's for that matter—you would, with or without a key."

"Doubtlessly true," Sherlock agreed, then halted. "Are you enabling me with breaking-and-entering?"

"Sherlock, just give the bloody key back to that poor girl!"

Sherlock groaned, collapsing into his own chair, and glowered over at his flatmate. He grabbed the doctor's cup of tea, ignoring when he spluttered in protest, and then snatched the remote to turn on the telly, flipping to a program that he knew the doctor absolutely despised. When he glanced at John, watching him from the corners of his narrowed eyes, even he couldn't keep the childish petulance from his voice.

"You never let me have any fun."


End file.
